


The Speckled Band

by FangirlAli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:19:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangirlAli/pseuds/FangirlAli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go on a case outside of London. But what they find there is more than just a case. No slash (sorry!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Case

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a story by Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not the genius behind the characters or the case.

Ah, England. The land of tea. The home of the Queen. The country of politeness and gloriously mundane politics. And horrifically bad weather. 

Indeed, the skies were grey with the promise of an impending storm as Doctor John Watson walked briskly down Baker Street. His only protection against the incoming maelstrom was a simple jacket, which, for the fifth time that day, he wished he'd replaced a long time ago for one with a hood. But as he came closer to his destination, John decided, with more than a hint of smugness, that he had successfully escaped the rain that day, regardless of his jacket's capabilities. As he reached the familiar front door and the sky began to ripple with thunder, John Watson was glad he was home.

 

'Home early?' It wasn't a question, not really. Sherlock had most likely 'deduced' as to the reasons of his flatmate's early return from his shoes or something like that. That being said, John often felt it his responsibility to fill silences, so he answered him anyway.

'Yeah, uh, the surgery closed early today, 'cause of the new build. Which is also why I'm going to be home a lot more for the next two weeks.' As he spoke, John took of his coat and sat down at the desk in front of his laptop, and turned it on. 

'Right...'Sherlock turned away from his set-up in the kitchen ( it was based on the decay of eyeballs after death or something similar, but to John it was simply a lot more eyeballs in tea) and faced John.

'I don't suppose you'd fancy a field trip, would you?' Now that was a real question.

'Field trip...?' John said, surprised by his flatmate's request. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, as if debating internally, before speaking again.

'You see I - well, I found a case of... interest to me. It's outside of London, but not too far. I saw it in the papers, and nothing has come up over here so I thought... why not? You don't have to come, of course,' Sherlock said, as an afterthought. 'But where would I be without my blogger?' 

John considered for a while, before asking, 'What's the case?'. 

Sherlock grinned in anticipation. 'You're coming, then?' 

As John looked out at the pouring rain, he gave the answer. 'I wouldn't miss it for the world.'


	2. Suitcases

'Where's the case at, exactly?' John asked hesitantly as Sherlock went off to find some suitcases.

'And, er, for how long d'you reckon? It's just, there are things to sort out and stuff...' John trailed off as he realised that Sherlock was no longer listening. As brilliant as he was, the detective had the attention span of a small child with ADHD. That did not make it easy for a conversation of any kind, let alone one that involved anything beyond a need-to-know basis. John couldn't count the number of questions Sherlock hadn't bothered to answer during that week alone. So instead of asking again, John set about finding a suitcase for himself. They searched the flat from top to bottom, but even when Mrs Hudson tried, there wasn't a suitcase to be found. So, eventually, John was once again pushed out into the rain (with an umbrella this time, courtesy of Mrs Hudson) and out to the shops to purchase two suitcases.

xxx

Sherlock watched as his friend started his trek down the street. The nearest shop that sold suitcases was at least a mile away, giving Sherlock the sufficient time to think without his flatmate there to distract him. He sighed and walked over to the desk John had recently vacated. Underneath a stack of old files from a previous case, Sherlock unearthed a newspaper from the day before. He flipped through the useless ads until he got to the section he was searching for. The article of interest was small and easily missed, shoved to the very bottom of the page. It was a police appeal, for information concerning an 'accident' that had resulted in the death of two young girls. It had perplexed the police and all the experts they had called in. But that wasn't what had caught Sherlock's eye. The 'accident' had taken place in a school, which was shown in a picture next to the appeal. And he recognised it.

Upon noticing the article the previous day Sherlock had puzzled over whether to follow it up. The case fitted his needs perfectly, almost too perfectly. Away from London, but not too far, a mystery that would take more than a day to solve. But his conscience, the small part of his brain that actually cared, was battling with the rest of him. The case, although perfectly situated, would bring up old memories. Old memories and old friends. One friend, specifically. One that he had abandoned in his own grief a long time ago. And one that might not, would not welcome him back. Sherlock dropped the newspaper, and with it the fight. He would go. John would go. They'd solve the case. And damn the consequences. 

Slowly, Sherlock walked over to the bookcase. On the bottom shelf, underneath some Dickens, was a slim A4 folder. He picked it up hesitantly, and sat down in his chair. The folder, plain as it was, didn't give any indication of what it could contain. The plain sheet of paper that was visible had few words printed on it, words that were unnecessary, really, as Sherlock knew exactly what it was. But try as he might, he couldn't quite find the courage to open it. Not yet, anyway. His fingers hovered, ghosting across the plastic.  
Finally, after a long, long time, Sherlock gave up and placed the folder back into its hiding place.

 

When John eventually found his way back, with the suitcases in hand, the detective and the blogger packed up for the journey ahead. If Sherlock seemed more subdued than normal, John didn't mention it.

The next day, as they were leaving the apartment and John was waiting for the taxi, Sherlock came back to the bookcase. The edge of the folder was still visible. Sherlock took the folder out once more, and almost took it with him, but the rational part of his brain made him put it back again. But not before he could read the words. As the detective made his way out of the apartment and into the waiting cab, those two words seemed to echo, again and again, in the back of his head.

Cassie's Case.


	3. The Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really, really, really sorry for the wait!! It's been ages and ages since I last updated - I lost all my work and only recently found it all again. So here it is (finally), the third chapter! I'm thinking this won't be too long a fic length - 5 chapters, maybe? Enjoy!

John woke with a start as the cab hit a pothole.

They'd been on the road for roughly thirty minutes when he'd fallen asleep, but it seemed that they had left the motorway for the countryside. As beautiful as it was, with rolling green hills straight out of Hobbiton, it wasn't a very car-friendly area. The road got progressively bumpier as they travelled deeper into the country, and closer to their destination. Sherlock cleared his throat, startling John.

'I was wondering when you were going to wake up.' Sherlock sighed dramatically, 'I was considering leaving you in here to stay the night, as you seem so comfortable in this environment.' John rolled his eyes - he wasn't particularly bothered with Sherlock's moodiness. He knew that Sherlock was really just annoyed that he couldn't update John on the case over the journey. Besides, he'd had a good two hours sleep at least, and a blissfully short journey without any of Sherlock's lectures. All in all, it was a win-win situation, even if the loser was a little sour in the long run. John yawned again, and as he did so, a village came into sight. It was, presumably, _the_ village.

John turned towards Sherlock and raised his eyebrows in question, to which Sherlock replied with a brusque nod. Ah. Still pissed off, then. But there wasn't any time to dwell on it as the cab pulled up to the only overnight accommodation the village could provide.

''Ere we are, then!'

xxx

  
Sherlock climbed briskly out of the taxi and towards the inn. John would deal with the taxi, and besides, Sherlock had talked enough with that driver during the blogger's nap. Four sentences were enough for anyone.

Instead, he would talk to the innkeeper, to gain information regarding the case as well as to negotiate sleeping arrangements. John was too nice, too naive to deal with that sort of thing properly. Ordinarily, that would make him perfect for the task, but Sherlock wanted a proper read on the situation, one that relied upon first impressions.

As he entered the old building, he suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching him. It was an ominous feeling, with the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end, and a cold sense of dread. But when he turned to face his opponent, he only saw the figure of a child, no older than ten. The girl stared at him, with an inquisitive expression, and did not look away once. They stood there, frozen, in a silent battle until the rather abrupt arrival of John.

  
'Well thanks for that, Sherlock! I sorted out the cab, the least you could do would be to fix the lodgings- oh!' At this point, John had noticed the child on the path. The girl broke her stare and scampered away like a startled animal. Surprised, John turned to the detective .

'What was all that about?'

  
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and began walking back to the inn without answering John's question. He may have seemed unconcerned, bored even, by the small girl's presence, but inwardly, he was shaken. The girl wasn't simply a curious local. She was a messenger, a source of information, of that he was sure. But to whom? As Sherlock headed into the ancient inn once more, he promised himself an answer to that very question.


End file.
